


Over the Same old Ground

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: During Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-12
Updated: 2007-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-03 15:19:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8718868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: "Halfway through July, Dad drives out of state for four nights and Dean sits outside past midnight, most nights, and he works on the fucking car just to avoid looking Sam in the eyes, even though there's nothing left to fix."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

**over the same old ground.**  
SPN. Sam/Dean, NC-17. 2515 words. I realized how much I missed clichéd unrequited Wincest fics, so I wrote one. Warnings for incest, language, some underage sexuality, and clichés. As always, Kate held my hand all the way through it. All the love in my heart, baby. *cuddles* Title from Pink Floyd (good God, I have _got_ to leave this song alone).  
  
  
_We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year  
      Running over the same old ground—what have we found?_  
  
  
[ 11. ]  
  
The first time Dean brings home a girl, he's fifteen.  
  
The first time Sam tries to kiss his brother, he's eleven.  
  
There's some sort of connection there, a conclusion, but Dean tries not to think about it.  
  
It slips in, sometimes, in later years when he's had a few drinks too many. He'll see Sammy's eyes wide and bright, and he'll remember Sam's mouth, open and out of focus and close, and Dean knows, somewhere, that something broke and started there, but it's years before he lets himself figure out exactly what.  
  
  
[ 14. ]  
  
In this farmhouse in Georgia, the only room that doesn't smell like sour hay is Dean's. Halfway through July, Dad drives out of state for four nights and Dean sits outside past midnight, most nights, and he works on the fucking car just to avoid looking Sam in the eyes, even though there's nothing left to fix. Sammy's been more insistent lately, maybe since they've been all cooped up together with no on else for miles, but whatever the reason, Dean's not budging and Sam's too stubborn to just give up.  
  
The windows are all open, mostly 'cause they forget to close them and don't really worry as long as the salt lines stay put. Dean's room's just above the driveway and even two floors up, Sam can still hear whatever head-banging metal shit Dean's blasting, probably just to piss Sam off. Because it always pisses Sam off.  
  
Dean's room is the only place in the whole house that doesn't smell like the abandoned farm and the barn rotting in a field a couple hundred yards away. They've got no use for any of this, but the place is supposed to be cursed so the rental was cheap, and they've got plenty of room to spar and shoot and do whatever else they need to do. Dean's room doesn't smell like the farm. Just smells like Dean and like everything Sam has always known about his brother.  
  
He crawls into Dean's bed with the music still too loud outside, and he's sure Dean will know. Sam presses his face into his brother's pillow and just breathes. One hand works its way carefully under the waist of his pajama pants, pushes past his underwear and closes on his cock.  
  
When Dean walks in—because of _course_ he does, and isn't that just what Sam wanted? Because if Dean sees, if Dean knows, maybe he'll believe it and then, then—  
  
When Dean walks in, Sam's lower lip is bloody between his teeth and the covers are half on the floor. And all Dean does is turn on his heel and walk away, his jaw tight and one hand digging in his pocket, grabbing for the keys.  
  
The Chevy crunches back up the gravel sometime around three, and she sounds almost as clumsy and unsteady as Dean when he stumbles up the stairs and pushes through Sam's bedroom door, not even bothering to close it again.  
  
Sam catches it before Dean gets within five feet, the smell of cheap perfume and liquor and sex, and Dean half-laughs into Sam's skin when his brother visibly jerks away.  
  
Dean lowers himself into Sam's bed, drunk enough that he doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands, and it's some perverse miracle that he's home alive at all, but Sam's pretty fucking sure Dean would never let anything happen to that car no matter what he was on, so maybe it doesn't matter.  
  
In his ear, Dean's whispering, "Finish up okay? S'it s'good as you hoped?"  
  
Sam mutters, "Fuck you. _Fuck you_ , go to your own bed."  
  
Dean's hand, his palm sweaty against Sam's skin pushes past his brother's shirt to rest at the base of his spine. "Fucked this girl tonight," Dean whispers. "Tall. Kinda looked like, like you." He bites softly at Sam's throat and mumbles, "Made her scream."  
  
"Jesus," Sam hisses, and twists around so he can put one hand flat against Dean's chest and push him away. "Get the fuck off me, Dean. Just—just go to bed."  
  
And Dean, through however much alcohol's crowding his brain, blinks slowly once, twice, and he grunts and says, "Thought this's what you wanted." He moves to stand, pushes him self uneasily out from under Sam's covers.  
  
There's nothing Sam can say that will make any of this okay. So he doesn't. He just waits for the bedroom door to close and Dean's footsteps to drag-drop down the hall.  
  
  
[ 18. ]  
  
They're in fucking _Montana_ of all places when Sam tells them. When Sam actually says out loud, I'm leaving. I'm going. When he says, I'm eighteen and you can't stop me, and John puts his fist through the wall, and Dean just says nothing.  
  
It's early August and it's hot and the air conditioning doesn't work. When Dean corners Sam in the bathroom, he's still not sure if he wants to hit Sam or fuck him. He doesn't know how he wants to do this or even what, just that he wants Sam to stay. And his brother won't make any choices for him.  
  
Sam glares at Dean in the mirror and twists the cold water tap off, gropes blindly for a towel to dry his hands.  
  
"Fuck California."  
  
Sam shakes his head. "We're not gonna do this."  
  
Dean opens his mouth to argue. Sam throws a punch that catches him square in the jaw. It's not even that hard 'cause the angle's all wrong and Sam's not _really_ trying, but Dean goes to his knees anyway.  
  
From the ground, Sam and his growth spurt look even taller. His brother glares down at him, hands fisted tight, but eventually he relaxes his fingers and offers Dean a hand up. It's just their father he's fighting, mostly.  
  
Dean reaches and tugs down Sam's fly instead. And Sam doesn't argue, doesn't even say a word until Dean's lips are on his cock, just a soft little noise out of his throat and then he goes quiet until he can feel Dean's tongue and Dean's teeth. That happens and there's no thoughts, no conversation, just a string of, "Fuck, fuck, Dean, god _damn_ ," pouring out of him, and Sam presses his back against the wall and squeezes his eyes shut tight, like he's a kid and wishing on birthday candles.  
  
He hasn't. He's never. He tries to tell Dean but his brother's not listening, maybe doesn't give a fuck, and Sam groans and loses it. Dean spits into the tub and pushes to his feet, breathing hard and heavy like he does in the mornings after running too many miles on the side of the road before sunup. His eyes are bright and his chest is heaving and Sam says aloud, "No."  
  
He takes one breath, another, and sags against the wall. He says, "I'm not gonna do this, man—it's not fucking normal."  
  
He walks out with his head down to avoid Dean's eyes.  
  
  
[ 22. ]  
  
They get a room just off campus. Zack offers his apartment but Sam... can't. He just can't. Dean keeps looking at him like he doesn't know what to say or how to act, and there's nothing Sam can do with that. It's all new, and he doesn't want new. New just burned to cinders and his skin and clothes still smell like smoke and it's just. No. He can't.  
  
"You want a shower?" Dean asks. The question takes too long to get to Sam's brain. He just shakes his head. "You..." It says something about their family, he's sure, how are hard it is to ask, "Anything I can do, man? Just—"  
  
Predatory. The look in Sam's eyes there, when he turns to Dean, is just predatory. He says, "Yeah," and shifts a little from where he's sitting on the mattress. He nods. "Yeah, there's something."  
  
"Hey," Dean says, puts his hands up. Like surrender. "Hey, Sammy, wait." Sam's on his feet, walking, pressing into Dean's space.  
  
"Yeah," he says, not really listening. From here, Dean can smell the smoke in Sammy's hair. "C'mon."  
  
Dean turns his head, but he's careful with his brother. Just one hand flat on Sam's chest and he says quietly, "Sammy, you don't want to—not really. Just go to bed, all right? I'll be here when you wake up. I'll—"  
  
"Yes, I _do_." His brother's voice is almost whiny, childlike. Broken and cracking and Dean half-expects Sam to stomp his foot. All six feet some inches of him sag, instead, against the wall. "Please," he says miserably. "Dean, I need—"  
  
Dean closes his eyes and maybe sends up some sort of a prayer, but he learned long ago there's no one waiting around to hear it. Tonight's the proof.  
  
He says, "Okay. Okay, Sammy, yeah." Loosening Sam's belt and kissing his brother's jaw, he tells him, "I know what you need. Just relax. Breathe." And Sam does.  
  
  
[ 23. ]  
  
Two hours out of Chicago, Dean pulls over at a place flashing neon that says twenty bucks a night. The guy at the desk's half dead or half asleep, Dean can't tell which, but he doesn't look twice at them, bloodied as they are.  
  
The room key cuts into his palm, and he keeps it fisted tight as Sam drags a needle through his skin, biting his tongue to keep from making a sound. His hands and shoulders are tight, tense, and Dean doesn't know if it's anticipation or fear, and if it is, he's not sure why. There's more than one reason, and he both hopes and doesn't that it's about him and about what Sam said about before and what he wanted or didn't want and—  
  
"Shit, _careful_ , man." Sam shifts a little on the pillows, his skin and hair damp under peroxide and needles and thread.  
  
Dean snorts, something like sorry _princess_ , and Sam reaches a lazy arm to swat at his brother's arm.  
  
"You're not thinking about stitches," he says, and Dean's hands stop moving over the last knot. Sam pushes up by one arm and chews at his lip, watching his brother's face. "I meant not like before," he says, like it clarifies. "I won't be here forever, man, but we can still..." He sighs, touches his fingers to the bandages at Dean's forehead, the bloody swell at the corner of his mouth. "We can still have this now. I want that."  
  
_I don't_ , Dean thinks, but it's a lie. It's been a lie for a long time, longer than he'd like to think about, and how fucked in the head does that make him, really? How much worse can it get?  
  
He starts packing away their supplies.  
  
Sam's hands slip between the waist of his jeans and his skin, two resting there, like a question. He says, "Dean," and he says, "Please."  
  
Dean doesn't look up. He follows the scuffed, ugly carpet's pattern with his eyes. "I've gotta finish clearing this up," he says.  
  
"Liar." Sam grabs his wrist and holds him in place, and Dean tries to look annoyed, but he doesn't pull it off. "We both want to."  
  
"Sammy," Dean warns.  
  
Sam's not listening. His hand's fast on Dean's zipper, the button of his jeans. His hand pushing into Dean's boxers, Sam ducks his head and he whispers in his brother's ear, "I want you to fuck me."  
  
"I _don't_ ," Dean tries, helpless, even as Sam's hand grips his cock and Sam's teeth graze the shell of his ear.  
  
He says, "Bullshit," and almost smiles, his brother swelling, hardening in his palm. Dean hisses softly, and he starts to say something, but he doesn't push Sam away. He starts to say something, but Sam cuts him off. He squeezes, licks at Dean's throat, and he says again, " _I want it_."  
  
Dean's eyes fall shut and he groans, " _Sam_." His hands are fisted tight in the covers, and he's shaking with what it takes to keep from pushing into Sam's grip. Sam's thumb slurs over the head of his cock, and Dean bucks upward, cursing.  
  
He doesn't want this, some part of his brain whispers. He wouldn't leave if he—  
  
Sam kisses his jaw, his mouth, and he pushes his tongue past Dean's lips. His right hand's still jerking Dean off, and he drops the left to his jeans, clumsy at the buttons. They fall loose, finally, open and slipping low at his hips, and Sam kicks them off, tugs his shorts down, shifting on the mattress and onto his knees.  
  
"Dean," he says, and Dean mumbles some inaudible reply. "Look at me. Please, don't make this—" He doesn't know the word, but he knows there is one. Something for how this feels, like it's dirty if Dean doesn't look, more twisted and wrong than it already is.  
  
Dean hesitates. Sam can feel it in his breathing, but his eyes open, dark and. And pleading, maybe, if Sam lets himself hope. Dean's skin is flushed and his mouth hangs open, wet, and when Sam asks him again, the last time, when Sam says, "Fuck me," Dean makes a noise like defeat or regret or something else, and he says, "Yeah. Fuck, yeah. All right."  
  
They haven't done this, not together, not before. Sam's never had this anywhere else either, and when he says that aloud, Dean groans and against Sam's shoulder, he mumbles, "You're killin' me, Sammy. Jesus."  
  
"I got, I've got lube in my bag," Sam says, and he throws out an arm to point.  
  
"You... you _planned_ this?" Dean's brain is hazy, slow to catch on. He manages to push up and off the bed, off of his brother, and he kneels to fumble with the zippers of Sam's bag, uncoordinated.  
  
"Not—not like _this_ , exactly." Sam lets his eyes shut. "I just. I was prepared. You know. Just in case."  
  
"Christ," Dean mutters, and finally, _fucking_ finally, he comes up with the bottle and a string of condoms. He half-falls on the bed and Sam spreads his legs wide. He's whispering, "Come on, come _on_ ," craning his neck to bite at Dean's throat, shoulders, lips while his brother slicks his fingers and cock.  
  
He takes as much time as he can, fucking Sam open, ready, and finally it's Sam, not Dean, who snaps. "Now," he pants, reaching blindly to pull his brother up and toward him. "Come on, Dean, now."  
  
Dean wonders if he should ask again and he wonders if he should stop. He thinks maybe he should do something, because it's not normal and Sam's only ever wanted normal and—  
  
" _Dean_ ," Sam groans, pain and something else, something good. His heel digs into Dean's back and he's got one arm hooked around Dean's shoulder, one hand tight on his own dick. "Dean, please, just _move_."  
  
Dean drops his sweat-damp forehead against the curve of Sam's shoulder, keeping his hips moving. Dragging wet, opened-mouthed kisses against his brother's skin, all he thinks that it's easier, at this point, to just stop thinking.


End file.
